The sound of footsteps behind you always meant one of two things.
Comfort or danger.
Ren had spent years training himself not to look over his shoulder—because most of the time, it was just his mind playing tricks on him. But tonight, walking with Airi under the soft canopy of rain and streetlight, he felt it again.
The phantom echo of someone trailing just a few steps behind.
He paused in front of a bookstore.
Airi stopped too.
"You okay?" she asked.
He gave a small nod. "Yeah. Just thinking."
But the way his jaw tensed told a different story.
They browsed the shelves for a while—Airi flipping through illustrated poetry books, Ren wandering to the philosophy section like he always did when his thoughts spiraled.
When they left, the rain had softened into mist.
They walked in silence for a few blocks before Airi finally said it:
"You're looking behind us again."
Ren didn't deny it.
Instead, he admitted, "I got another message today."
Airi stopped.
"You didn't tell me."
"I didn't want to worry you."
She crossed her arms. "Ren, not telling me is what worries me."
He sighed, pulling out his phone.The message was still there.
"Keep pretending. I'll be there when it falls apart."
Airi stared at it, lips tightening.
"It's Masaki."
Ren nodded.
"I thought he was just angry. Maybe jealous. But this is…" he trailed off, searching for the word. "Cruel."
Back at his apartment, they dried off, neither saying much.
Ren turned off the lights, lit a few candles instead.
The glow made the silence feel warmer somehow.
Airi sat on the edge of the couch while he leaned against the wall by the window.
"I want to move forward," he said. "But I feel like I'm dragging all this weight with me."
"Maybe you need to stop trying to walk like you're alone," Airi said gently. "We're both here. I'm not letting you carry this by yourself."
He looked at her then. The kind of look people give when they don't know how to say thank you for not giving up on me.
That night, Ren dreamt of a hallway.
Endless, white, sterile.
His father stood at the end, staring.
So did Masaki.
And between them was a child version of Ren—clutching a sketchbook like it was armor.
When he woke, the echo of footsteps still rang in his ears.
The next day, Ren met with his therapist again.
He told her everything. About Masaki. About the messages. About how even happiness now came with guilt.
She listened carefully, then asked:
"What does your brother want from you?"
Ren stared at the floor. "Control. Power. Maybe proof that I can't be happy without him."
"And what would it mean to finally stop reacting to him?"
Ren hesitated. "It would mean letting go of who I was when we were kids. And… maybe letting go of ever getting closure."
Later that evening, he met Airi at the park near her apartment.
It had stopped raining, but the ground was still damp, the air still clinging to memory.
They walked for a while, then sat by the pond where the city lights shimmered on the water.
"I think I'm ready to say it," Ren said.
"Say what?"
"I'm not afraid of him anymore."
Airi turned toward him, searching his eyes. "You're sure?"
"No," Ren admitted. "But I want to be."
Masaki, however, didn't wait.
That same night, Ren's phone rang again.
He answered, heart steady.
"I'm not running anymore," Ren said.
Masaki laughed. "Running? You think this is about fear?"
"You've been threatening me for weeks."
"I've been warning you. Because if you think some girl and therapy sessions make you invincible—"
Ren cut him off.
"No one's invincible. But I'm not the boy you used to trap and twist into your reflection. I'm building something you don't get to break."
"Big words for someone who used to cry when I left."
"I still cry," Ren said calmly. "I just don't hide from it now."
A pause.
Then Masaki whispered, "She's going to leave you. Just like everyone else."
Ren smiled, faint and tired. "If she does, it won't be because of you."
When he hung up, Airi was already beside him.
She hadn't asked to listen in.
She just knew.
And somehow, that meant everything.
The next day, they went to Airi's favorite lookout point near the old bridge. It was where she used to sit during her high school years when the world felt too loud.
She handed him a tiny sketchbook with a note taped to the front.
"For the new you. The one who's learning to stay."
Inside, every page was blank.
Except the last one.
It read:
You don't have to become someone else to be worthy.Just become someone who stays anyway.
Ren closed the book, hands trembling.
Not from fear.
From finally feeling safe.
But as they walked back, Airi's phone buzzed.
She read the message once.
Then twice.
Her fingers went cold.
"Ren," she whispered.
He turned.
"What is it?"
She showed him the screen.
A new message.
Unknown number.
A photo.
Of the two of them, sitting by the pond. Taken from behind. Distant, but unmistakable.
Beneath it, one sentence:
"Even the quiet moments aren't safe."